Big Brother Always Knows
by everyone'ssister
Summary: Dean Winchester knew his brother and he knew women. Women were fickle...so was Sammy. Brotherly!fluff...hurt!sam HAPPY NEW YEARS!


Dean Winchester knew his brother and he knew women. Women were fickle...so was Sammy.

Brotherly!fluff...hurt!sam

BIG BROTHER ALWAYS KNOWS

Dean Winchester knew his brother and he knew women. Women were fickle...so was Sammy. Granted Sam was loyal; more loyal than a hound dog. But Sam was as fickle as any woman Dean had ever met. Sam Winchester didn't know what he wanted. And Dean, the good big brother that he was, worked hard at giving him EXACTLY what he wanted.

Dean's life had never been an easy one. And he didn't anticipate it getting any easier any time soon. But damn it, Sam could at least help a little. All Dean needed of him was to know what he FREAKING WANTED. But Dean knew as well as Sam...and everyone else they knew, that Dean Winchester's luck was bum.

So Dean plodded along his life road dodging all the bullets his luck shot at him and...he tried to give Sammy what he wanted. And Sam...well, Sam tried to figure out what he wanted.

Well, one night the secret to life comes to Dean as he's feeling insecure and like a failure because Sam is unhappy...because Dean can't give him what he wants. The revelation comes to Dean and some of the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders. Sam is such a girl. He is as fickle as any woman. Now, he's as loyal as a hound dog. But the revelation is that Sammy Winchester just doesn't know what he wants.

Sam goes through bouts. And Dean laughs when secretly, he calls it Sam's period. Sam goes through times when he's just especially bad. And he's got a tell. Something that lets Dean know when discontentedness is setting in and making Sam more bitchy than normal. The tell was when "Sammy" started to bother the youngest Winchester.

"Alright Sammy," Dean snarks, shoving the clip up into his colt. "Let's go toast this son of a bitch."

"It's Sam." His little brother corrects, not looking up from the laptop. Long hair hanging around his face, bright eyes reflecting the light. "And you need to read the file one more time before we go get up close and personal with Frederic Rullocks."

Dean turns his back to his brother and rolls his eyes, yes mother, he mouths.

Frederic Rullocks was the ghost they were about to go lay to rest. His spirit had risen back up for revenge over his child which had been killed in an arson case at the school. Dean's mood dampened to say the least as he read over the Manila envelope Sam gave him.

Life was tough for Dean, but sometimes he was glad he was raised the way he was. So that he could protect himself and those he loved. Sometimes he was glad he didn't have to be afraid of the mundane things. In other words, he ponders over the file longer that Sam wants.

"Dean, let's go." He says, shutting his laptop and taking the file from Dean's hands and stacking it with some other papers on top.

Dean rolls his eyes again, but rises from where he sits and puts on his coat. Slides his colt in the back of his jeans and grabs his salt-loaded sawed-off shot gun. Sam follows him out the door and they're off to the graveyard.

Dean parks in a dark spot, surrounded by trees and shadows. Sam gets out as Dean stretches and pops his back.

"Dean c'mon," he snaps, "Let's get this done."

Dean gets out, "Oh Sammy, all eager for the diggin'." He grins, and pops the trunk and throws Sam a shovel.

"It's Sam," his brother bitches, as he swings the shovel over his shoulder and follows after Dean's easy stride towards the before mentioned man's headstone.

Dean throws a grin over his shoulder and stops by the grave, leaning the butt of the salt gun on his thigh, he motions for Sam to start digging.

"Freddy, all you're wild oats is sown," he coos down on the coffin that Sam is bringing into view.

Sam throws the shovel out and jumps up out of the grave and wipes his face with his sleeve, "Alright your turn," he says, smiling coyly. "Since you're so obviously bored, you know, talking to dead people and all."

Dean rolls his eyes AGAIN. God, Sam had a real stick up his ass. He jumps into the grave laughing to himself that Sam's cramps must be really bad.

Sam picks up the gun and rests it on his shoulder, "You know if you keep doing that you're eyes are going to stick that way." He says, pointing at Dean.

"What?" Dean asks innocently.

Sam just raises his eyebrows and points to the coffin and gives Dean a lets-get-going motion.

Dean huffs, "Alright, mom." And snickers at his double meaning.

Sam shakes his head at his brother and heaves a sigh. Dean breaks through the wood of the coffin and exposes the dusty skeleton. Sam goes to hand him the lighter fluid and some matches. As Dean reaches to receive the supplies he sees Frederic Rossuck flicker to reality a few yards behind Sam.

"Sammy!" He yells, jerking the matches and fluid from him, "Look out, behind you!"

Dean watches in slow motion as Sam's expression hardens into a bitch face, "It's SAM." He says annoyed, and then the ghost is behind his baby brother and is tossing him away like a rag doll.

Dean leaps from the grave in a flash and dumps the whole of the lighter fluid on the corpse, and then scratches all the matches to life and throws them down into the grave. He is turning in a flash to find his brother.

Sam hears Dean warn him, and he doesn't know if it's the late hours or all of the hard work lately, but all he can think is that Dean is calling him "Sammy" AGAIN. Even as he lets the words fall from his tongue he knows he's going to pay for the wasted time. The spirit simply places a hand on his chest and flings him over the grass and against a headstone. Sam's vision is blacking out, he feels warmth snaking down his face.

He watches as the ghost forms directly in front of him...the fire illuminates his big brother's features as he sets fire to the human's remains. Frederic Rullocks goes up in smoke before him, he hears Dean yell his name and sees him rush towards him...as Dean's hands come to support his head Sam's vision goes black.

"D'n?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"W's wrong?" Sam's head lays limply on Dean's shoulder, lips moving sluggishly against against his neck.

"You took a pretty good blow to the head, Sammy." Dean somehow manages to drag Sam's gigantic ass in through the motel room door and to the farthest bed from the door and sits him down.

Sam sways and blinks slowly. "Blow to the head?" He questions to himself.

"Blow to the head." He confirms as Dean applies a damp wash cloth to a shallow cut just riding Sam's hairline.

Sam grimaces and tries to swat Dean's hovering hands away.

"Hate blow to the heads," he grumbles, but then pauses and cocks his head to the side questioningly. "Blows to the head," he corrects himself.

Dean smirks and laughs gently while applying a butterfly bandage to Sam's wound.

Sam awkwardly flops his head back to look up at Dean.

"Wa's funny, De'n?"

"Nothing Sammy," Dean assures, grabbing a t-shirt and sweat pants from his brother's duffle and walking back to him.

"Come onnnnn," Sam whines, "Don't leave me out, Dee." He pleads petulantly.

Dean chuckles as he grabs the hem of Sam's shirt and gently pulls it off.

"Wa's funny?...De'n..." Sam sounds close to tears.

Dean pops Sam's head through the neck of the clean t-shirt and guides his long arms through the sleeves.

"You, Sammy," he said, keeping his voice soft, "Just you."

Dean works the jeans off his brother's hips and finally jerks them all the way off, with Sam kicking them away, giggling a little, making Dean grin again. He works Sam's feet into the legs of his sweat pants and pulls them up to his thighs. He wraps his arms around Sam's waist and pulls him up to stand.

He pulls the pants the rest of the way up, and Sam's head falls to Dean's shoulder again. Dean backs them up towards the head of the bed.

"C'mon little brother," he whispers. He sits Sam by the pillows and pulls the covers from under him and back. He begins to count out a few aspirins and some painkillers. Sam waits, his head falling to lean against his brother's hip.

"Little brother," he muses, "lways lil' brother."

Dean unscrews the lid on a bottle of water. "Here Sam."

Sam takes the pills and chases them down with a sloppy gulp of water. Dean takes the bottle and closes the lid.

"S'mmy," Sam corrects him, mumbling sleepily.

Dean smiles fondly and thumbs a drip of water from around his mouth.

"Sammy, little brother..." Sam is still talking confusedly to himself. Dean pushes him towards the pillows, guiding him to the softness there with a hand at the back of his head.

"Yep, that's you," Dean reassures softly, "Little brother, Sammy." He pulls the covers up to his brother's chest. Sam closes his eyes.

"Sooo," he breathes outs "Y'mus be the big br'ther."

"Yep." Dean answers, losing his dirty jeans and shirt for clean bedclothes of his own.

"Y're a good big brother," Sam slurs into his pillow.

Dean smiles and checks both their guns thoroughly after the hunt...just as a precaution. Sam falls silent and when Dean is satisfied their colts are alright and they're loaded again, he pulls back his bed and slips his gun under his pillow.

Suddenly, Sam sits up on his elbows and stares at Dean confused, "But I'm bigger'n you." He points out, his mind clearly boggled. Dean coughs back a laugh at Sam's concussion cuteness.

"Don't worry, Sam, I'm still the big brother." He says, sitting on his little brother's bed, pushing him back down towards the pillows.

"Sammy," Sam insists, then, "How can you be sure?" He demands.

"I took care of you didn't I?" Dean proves soothingly, sweeping bangs away from Sam's eyes.

"It still hurts," tears glistening Sam's big, hazel orbs.

"That's why I do this," Dean says easily, he scoots up to the headboard of Sam's bed and pulls his little brother into his arms against him so Sam's head rests on his chest, ear over Dean's heart.

Sam sighs, sounding content. He latches a firm grip onto Dean's t-shirt.

"I feel like the little brother," he whispers, eyes closing, safety and warmth coming only with Dean. The rhythmic beating of Dean's heart against his ear begins to drown out the pounding in his abused head.

"And so you are," Dean whispers, a hand carding through Sam's chestnut mop, the other resting over the fist Sam has clutched in his shirt, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the back of Sam's hand.

"You are a good big brother," Sam mutters, rubbing his cheek into Dean's t-shirt, trying to burrow deeper into Dean's chest and his warmth.

"Shsh, Sam. Go to sleep." Dean presses a kiss into his little brother's hair.

"S'mmy," Sam slurs his correction, and Dean smiles.

"I gotcha' Sammy, big brother's gotcha'."

Sam may not know what he wants, but big brother always knows what he needs.

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